Primordial Villain With A Slave Harem-Chapter 820: Evolving Mid-Battle

°°°

Form IV: Tyrant’s Edge

Purpose: Convert aggression into overwhelming saber momentum.

Focus: Swing velocity, flame-wrapped edges, explosive ends.

Mechanic: Successive slashes build velocity, each one hotter and heavier than the last.

Finisher: Flame Guillotine: a downward saber arc with all stored velocity and Qi exploding on impact.

°°°

He moved again. This time, the saber responded like an extension of his body.

He slashed.

Then again.

And again.

Each time, the air split. Heat surged. Sparks trailed behind the arc like comet tails.

The bandit boss raised his saber just in time to block the finishing overhead slash.

*BOOM!*

The ground ruptured beneath his feet. The shockwave flung embers into the air like volcanic ash.

The bandit boss stumbled, coughing, arms numb from the force.

Quinlan was already moving.

°°°

Form V: Sovereign’s Pursuit

Purpose: Chase the fleeing. Kill the retreating.

Focus: Saber thrusts, mid-range bursts, targeted pressure.

Mechanic: Each movement adjusts trajectory with minor bursts; gains precision the faster it moves.

Finisher: Flame Lancer: a thrusting strike where the saber burns through the target, guided by locked-in Qi pressure.

°°°

The saber twisted into a low stab, then curved upward, guided by a perfectly timed Qi burst.

The boss jumped back.

It was all too late.

The saber’s edge tore through his side and left a glowing trail of blood in the air.

He screamed.

Quinlan didn’t slow.

°°°

Form VI: Emperor’s Execution

Purpose: End it.

1

Focus: Heavy stance, saber sheathing, explosive single-draw strike.

Mechanic: Qi compresses into the scabbard. The draw releases it all at once.

Finisher: Infernal Draw: a single strike capable of bisecting armor, flame igniting from inside the wound.

°°°

Quinlan exhaled. Every breath he took was heat, pressure, fire. His stance was rooted like stone.

The boss, panicking, charged with his own martial cry: "Burning King’s Wrath!"

The blade moved.

It was a single flash of light.

Followed only by silence.

The bandit boss stopped in his charge. His eyes went wide.

A thin line of smoke rose from his chest.

Then he split apart.

The corpse hit the ground in two charred halves.

Quinlan let out a breath.

He’d just upgraded the old man’s Blazing Tyrant Fist style, adding his own flair to it. As the new forms no longer depended on his fists, Quinlan decided to honor the old man by simply calling it Blazing Tyrant Style. He didn’t wish to take away from the fact that it was that disabled geezer who helped him out so damn much.

Without him, Quinlan wouldn’t know where he would be right now.

As for why he could evolve the style so freely?

Simple.

He wasn’t some sect-raised cultivator bound by dogma and rigid instruction.

He was a Primordial, a being who existed outside the natural order. One could even argue that he was born to defy the very limits of cultivation.

What others needed decades or lifetimes to grasp, he understood through instinct.

Where others copied forms, he dissected principles.

Where others trained, he evolved.

He already held mastery over fire, even if this world’s laws sealed his spells away. That mastery didn’t vanish. It simply waited, sleeping beneath his skin. So when he took the Blazing Tyrant Fist, it wasn’t blind imitation. He saw the intent behind every movement. The buildup of heat. The natural rhythm of combustion. The moment he added a saber to the equation, the martial art didn’t break.

It ignited.

What burst from that fusion was no longer just a set of brutal punches. It was a style in every sense of the word. Saber arcs replaced fists. Fire Qi threaded through steel instead of flesh and bone. And the three original forms? They were now the foundation.

The Blazing Tyrant Style had been reborn.

Not through study.

Not through mimicry.

But through the Primordial Entity Quinlan Elysiar.

And to him, that was only natural.

Because what was the point of being a Primordial if you couldn’t surpass your teachers?

Quinlan stood in silence as he observed his surroundings.

The field was soaked in blood. Corpses smoldered where fire refused to die, and the black saber in his hand hissed with lingering heat. But even as the final outlaw fell, it wasn’t satisfaction that filled him.

It was tension.

A strange sensation stirred in his gut; low, coiling, and ancient. His breathing slowed. His senses sharpened. His pulse synchronized with something deeper, older. Not the rhythm of battle... but of advancement.

The feeling cultivators whispered about. The whisper of the next realm calling.

The pull of a breakthrough.

Qi swirled within him, slow and heavy like molten ore in a crucible. His meridians, once strained and barely stable, now pulsed with refined power. And three gates—three final gates—remained sealed. For now.

But not for long.

He walked slowly toward the center of the corpse-littered battlefield, placing the saber back into its scabbard.

Then, Quinlan sat. Cross-legged. Eyes closed.

The flames inside him didn’t fade: they folded inward, curling around his core like a sleeping dragon.

The 10th Meridian pulsed faintly.

The Trial of Movement.

He recalled it now: the way his body flowed in battle, how Form II guided him like a dancer through flame. The rhythm of Qi in motion. Circulation during chaos. No longer did his steps feel clumsy. He had learned to move like a cultivator.

No.

Like a weapon.

The moment he embraced that flow, the meridian shuddered, then snapped open, Qi rushing through the channel like a flood breaching its banks.

His spine straightened. His breath caught.

Then, stillness.

The 11th Meridian. The Trial of Intent.

Where the last was forged in battle, this one required stillness. And clarity. A test of purpose.

He thought of the old man, of the saber, of the style he had reshaped. He thought of the outlaws he slaughtered and the blood that coated his robes. He could’ve chosen vengeance. He could’ve burned that thug alive, slowly and cruelly.

But he hadn’t.

He chose growth.

He chose to create.

That alignment of spirit—the moment his path grew sharper than any blade—was enough. The 11th Meridian bloomed open, warm and steady.

Only one remained.

The 12th Meridian. The Trial of Flame.

This one did not open through choice. It demanded fusion. A collision between soul and essence. Between man and element.

And it hurt.

The fire shard buried within him flared. His body burned from the inside out. Veins boiled. Flesh cracked. Bones sizzled.

But he didn’t scream.

He only focused.

He called upon Form VI, not just as a movement, but as a concept. The perfect martial expression of his fire, his saber, and his will.

The moment fire Qi flowed cleanly into that technique and responded, the meridian shattered open with a flash of blinding internal light.

Qi erupted from him in a dome of heat, rippling outward and turning ash to vapor.

Then...

Silence.

Quinlan sat, unmoving.

All twelve meridians pulsed in harmony.

He had crossed the threshold.

From a promising cultivator...

...into a man who stood at the edge of Core Formation. The hallmark of being elite.

And as the last embers cooled, Quinlan opened his eyes.

They were no longer just the eyes of a man.

They were the eyes of something more.